


What Are The Chances? (Our Diamond Explodes)

by Pink_and_Velvet



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bars and Pubs, Character Study, Developing Character, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Four Parents Are Better Than Two, Multi, No Models, No band, POV First Person, Partying, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post rehabilitation, Rehabilitation, Same-Sex Marriage, Second Chances, Studies, Surrogacy, Then and Now, engagements, life story, narration, new lease on life, new life, new start, no fame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29655054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: What are the chances of us, you and me, even having a life together? For better or worse, in sickness and in health. Till my selfish death, almost did us part?
Relationships: Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran), Simon Le Bon/Yasmin Le Bon, Yasmin Le Bon/Renée Simonsen
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m at a real crossroad in my personal life right now. Nothing is easy, and I’m not exactly coping too well. 
> 
> I had the idea late last year - what if I could write a modern AU of my Hold Tight universe. No band, no models, no fame, no A/B/O.. just ‘normal.’ What would these characters be like in ‘normal’ jobs, in the modern world. How would they all meet, how would they stay together and continue to build their lives?
> 
> Now I’m struggling with that story, I attempted to write down what I figured my John’s thoughts could be. I started writing this a week or two ago and wasn’t planning on sharing anything but, with the way everything is right now, I could really use a pick me up. Some love in my life.
> 
> Therefore, please enjoy this. This is not an easy read, you have been warned.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How I first met you, how you first saved me from myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all from John’s POV at age 31, reflecting on his younger self in this canon.

What were the chances of us meeting, of me even seeing straight when we did?

The first time I saw you, I couldn’t believe what I saw: me, quite literally, drunk off my arse and my dopey reflection in your sunglasses. The lights were down and the fog machines up, I’d had that extra drink that nobody should’ve served me. I fell right into you… well, ‘Faith’ era George Michael in those damn tight blue jeans, and fringe leather jacket; at the Rum Runner. You caught me. You _saved_ me for the first of many times right then that night. Saved me from crashing to the floor.

I was utterly wasted and yet I can still remember what song was playing as you caught me. ‘Careless Whisper’ of course, it was Valentine’s Day 2010 and you were set to perform it. Thankfully, that was the last lonely Valentine’s night of my life, because of you.

You’re _everything_ to me, you know? More than everything, always more than everything.

I fell into you; you hauled my drunken arse up. And again, George, in the pouring rain. You dashed out to grab me, to hand me back my jacket. I know you just wanted another opportunity to touch me, don’t even try to deny it you sod! You helped me, hands quivering as they rounded my bony chest, helped to get me on the right train. And now I’m coming home to you, on the night train.

I kept coming back to the bar. You were working less and less. Honestly, the more I asked for you, the more I tried to find you… you weren’t there anymore. Or maybe you were, who knows. Remember when I told you about that night when this chick spilt her drink all over me? The newly engaged Tracey, with teased blonde hair that could’ve touched the Runner’s ceiling, and her tiny man Ands? Remember them? Course you do. She was your damn hairdresser! We’ve gotten super close since, I’m still convinced Tracey knew I wanted you before I knew it myself. I can still hear her words now, her soft voice, her bubbly laughter and gay George Michael jokes… Let’s go ‘Outside’, am I right?! Right till her fiancé swept her away and back to the dance floor.

Oh how glum I was, watching the two of them sashay around the neon tiles. Holding each other tight, hands in each other’s hair as they kissed. Eyes closing, pulses soaring… Christ, how I envied them. Still do in a way, now they have their baby boy, who isn’t even really a baby anymore.

My drinking was only getting worse. The depression and the loneliness was only getting worse, and yet, I couldn’t talk about it. Not with you anyways, not in the real world. My band posters on the walls heard more than you, I would spend hours laying on the bed talking and staring aimlessly at the ceiling. They understood me; they listened.

You didn’t know I existed really, now that I come to think about it. Not then anyways. You were my bastard, and yet I wasn’t _your_ bastard back… right? Right. By now, I’m downing a six pack of beer near every night, whatever dosh is left means I can go for the hard stuff. I have a mate – no, _had_ a mate, who dealt with… you know… in my arms and all. I was using a lot, but you didn’t know that yet. You didn’t need to see my arms; you never saw my arms.

I never came to the club in a short sleeve shirt or vest, you know. Did you realise that?

Anyways, I’m still falling about the front doors of many dealers and gangs. I’m on my knees. Still always after more, more, more. More _now._ Sometimes I do wonder, if it wasn’t dope that I was after and if I lived in another time; could I swap the smack for crack? Or am I at my worse using this stuff? Can it be any worse? Surely, my veins can’t take that much more. And yet my heart, my head, wants it. Needs it. Craves it, needs it to bloody survive. It’s a distraction, gives me something to wake up after 3pm for. It was the damnest distraction. Can’t believe I didn’t kill myself back then, I know you ask yourself that too.

_But nobody knows, what’s gonna happen tomorrow…_

If I had killed myself, what were the chances of you coming to my funeral? Of even knowing I was dead? Remember how I was once apart of your world? The club world, the eighties heaven that was our very own Studio 54: The Rum Runner. Which isn’t my world now; thank fuck. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still an eighties nut and enjoy the hairspray and all but, yikes, I just won’t be drinking away my jollies there ever again. Fingers crossed.

Somehow, 2010 is coming to an end and we meet again. I’m still a little hazy as to exactly where and when it all was, but that night out on New Street is the one I’m on about. We ran into each other and got to talking, you were all dressed for work of course. So it turns out, you had taken all your end of year exams and had taken the summer off to travel. A kibbutz, that’s the word ain’t it? In Tel Aviv… woah. I’m still not even sure where that is. But what I did know, do know even today, is that I still love hearing your endless stories about it; your work and times with the locals. You were building them a home, giving them a chance at life… incredible.  
  


Somehow, we’re sat in a quasi-seedy bar, and you’re just rambling away over a shot or three. For once, you’re not wearing those damned aviator sunglasses the character of Mr Michael requires. For once, I can see your actual eyes. They’re blue, I didn’t know that until that fateful night. I always assumed that they were a deep brown, a chestnut, much like your character. So then I realised, that’s why you keep them covered.

It was also that night I realised, placing a shy hand on your thigh, that all those months of pure torture: envisioning you everywhere, trying to paint a pretty picture of what I thought your face might look like, my dreams… Nick was right. I’ve been in love with you since I first saw you. And I was piss drunk when I first saw you but still; I had fallen. Fallen flat on my face almost, but like I said – you _saved_ me.

You saved me from a whole hell of a lot, you know. I just wish it could’ve come sooner. Before I was injecting all the fun at uni; before I was drinking away all the sorrows. Before I was drinking away all the failures and then I made a meal of it all when I dropped out. More time for booze; more time for smack. What more could I want?

More time to wonder endlessly about you. What were the chances of us meeting again, you ask? I honestly couldn’t quite believe I got to see you again, got to hold you again. That you _let_ me hold you again.

Another night, another junkie at the Runner. Skipping over the gory parts, somehow we both ended up out back. The moonlight glistened beautifully in your eyes, almost reflecting my silhouette back. I turned to you, swaying and head cloudy, and planted my liquor stained lips onto yours. Miraculously, you kissed me back. Kissed me hard, kissed me thorough. Kissed me dirty, pressing me into the brick wall. Hands slid beneath shirts; hands tugged at hair. Needless to say, that night was one of the best of my life; until I chucked up. Thank fuck you’d gone back in after we both came, you had to work after all. Did I ever tell you that I tossed up in the bushes just moments after? I don’t think I did… wasn’t because of you though. Your lips were so sweet, tingly, but so was the vodka, you know?

Months pass. I’m just about remembering your names, all of them. Curse you and your five goddamn names, it took me forever to learn the damn order! And I had been calling you bloody ‘George Michael’ for so long. Months pass. More needles, more smashed bottles… less light, less money, a trashed home. I’m stewing in my own filth.

We’re not exactly a couple yet, I don’t think. You kept asking about coming round to mine and meeting my parents; I kept putting it off, flipping out, being my ever so sketchy self with the details. Nothing. But anyways, your exams had come and gone; you were gearing up for the best and next step of your life. Your education, you were soaring.

The best and next step of your life, which I robbed you of.

Stop, don’t say it. I know what I did, don’t even try to take the guilt away from me. It didn’t work then, and it won’t work now. I still hang my head in shame, I’m still plagued with the guilt of getting in the way, stopping you from doing what you wanted to do. Stopping you from achieving your dreams, your career pathway was all laid out and I, you know your favourite little narcissistic arsehole, wound up in fuckin’ _rehab_ instead.

Guess I had it comin’, huh? What were the chances of that even happening? What were the chances of me even hitting rock bottom and bloody realising it?

What exactly was my rock bottom moment? I’m still not even sure, however it hurts too much to go back; to try and work it out.

I thought I didn’t need you to care. I thought I didn’t need you to understand. All I thought I needed from you was to fucking be there when I was turned on. When I needed a kiss and a cuddle; when I needed somebody to hold my overgrown shaggy hair back as I chucked up last night’s vodka in a plant pot.

I’ll never forget that night. Your ultimatum, your final cry out for help. To help _me._

I was so foolish, selfish. Call it what you want to call it; I’ll forever be ashamed of myself. We were lying in your bed together, holding hands, still clothed, for the first time. In about…crikey, November 2011, wasn’t it? Yep, that’s it. I was all hot and bothered, a good few beers insida me, and I needed you. Needed you _now._ And you were ready to give yourself to me, you were ready to take me. To love me, to guide me, to comfort me all for the first time… then I go and fuckin’ _blow_ it.

Trigger warning ahead, luv.

You saw my arms for the first time that night. All I remember was the look of horror on your face, how you nearly burst into tears. That look was petrifying; and I can still see it me in the back of my memory, carelessly haunting me. It still gives me nightmares. Terrors, even.

You dashed out of the bed, screaming and shouting. You were done. Done with me, done with us. Done with your ‘junkie boyfriend’, if I could even call myself _yours._ Guess I couldn’t, no matter how much I freakin’ wanted too. I loved you so much, I couldn’t stand disappointing you again. And then I did exactly that, again.

You told me that night like you had for months, your words were routine and yet they still killed you to say. I recall those words crystal clear because it was the first and only time I heard them. Actually heard them, because I chose to listen. Hear when you don’t listen…

_You know you could really be somebody someday, John. Without those drugs, you could really be somebody._

I broke.

Paramedics could’ve been there. The police too, I don’t remember. I haven’t asked about that night since, and you haven’t bought it up. Let’s not start now. Let’s just say, I was removed with force.

  
I was broken. Now I needed somebody to fix me.


	2. Chapter 2

I was admitted to a rehab clinic on the outskirts of Brum, for thirty days. A twelve step programme of sweating it out, learning why I had chosen to go down that route, learning what had caused me my great pain. I had had a relatively happy childhood. Loving parents, caring friends. I wasn’t a bad boy at school – no, I was a dreamer. I wanted so much, and dreamed it all. I was a Catholic dealing with the deepest of all Catholic guilts. Wanting what I couldn’t have, you, wasn’t even one of them.

Learning to cope with the shadow of the man I had become was the hardest. Learning to accept that I’ll never be the same again, no matter how many tablets I forced down and nurses I lashed out on, couldn’t even compare.

I still thank all the Saints and ones that are yet to even be named for you visiting me that one day family was allowed to come. See my progress and all. I didn’t want my parents to see me like that, force them to come and care for me; all beaten down, scarred and bruised. I don’t think my mother could’ve taken it, a heart attack was on the cards. My father probably didn’t even know I was that bad of an addict. I was still ever so pure in my mother’s cat eye frames.

But what I did know, dressed in those white clothes of symbolising new beginnings, a clean slate and whatnot; was that I wanted you more than ever. Wanted to make up to you what I had so crudely taken away, wanted to give _us_ another chance. If you would let me.

I couldn’t believe my luck. You let me.

I left rehab and you drove me back to Brum on the fifteenth of December, seemingly a new man. I had come undone, unravelled, badly restitched at the seams. You took me in, insisted on me staying with you at your place. Mine needed fumigation, ransacking, cleaning out the heroin. You needed to look out for me; I needed a father figure. I needed a guard, someone to shield me from the real world as I learnt to live a day with no needles, with no drinks, only the odd smoke. I needed someone to shield me from the evil in the world, from the devil I had long since sold my soul too.

You gave me the guest bedroom and even let me decorate it how I wanted. The walls were plastered with some of my eighties posters from home, that knockoff Nagel print, and the record player. Just like in the old days, I lay on my back talking to my posters. Confiding in my Wham! poster, instead of the George Michael, you, who I used to have dancing and singing before me as I slugged away at beer after beer. Billy Idol watched my breakdowns with a sneer, knowing I’m a better man than that. Bryan Ferry soothed me as I wept.

But what I didn’t know was that again, just by being in your presence, you were putting your career – no no, your _life_ on hold. For me. Again. I’ve just left freaking rehab and I’m still the dependant fucker I was when I went in. You’re my drug now, you know? _Love is the drug_ and fuck me, if I didn’t score…

Anyways. The gruelling months passed by, before I know it we’ve made it to Spring 2012. You’re not studying anymore, but you’re not my full time carer exactly either. I refuse to think about it. I’m starting to move from the sofa. I’m starting to cook for us alittle. I’m drawing a whole hell of a lot too, writing poems I never let you read. Lyrics, almost.

Olympic mania is in the air, so that was a pleasant distraction. The country was set to be united, if only for that one summer. And what a summer it was. I still remember the night of the opening ceremony, you had just returned from Hyde Park in the nick of time, from seeing one of our favourite bands. I couldn’t come, I couldn’t stand the thought of having so many people around me. Drinking, laughing, screaming… it scared the living daylights out of me. Nowadays I know that during that period, I was suffering from a light form of agoraphobia. But I didn’t want to stop you from going, you’d had to miss so much because of me and my childlike dependency, already. Plus, you’d been waiting ever so long to head back home, too. Don’t think I never noticed the homesickness. I had Nick come round that day, he kept me company for the first time in a long time.

I know, I know, I talk about him _all_ the dang time. I guess I just hadn’t realised how much I had been missing him, and Rog, till that day; you know? I was furious at first when Nick decided to not come and see me in rehab; but overtime it had settled because I was beginning to understand. Much like my parents, I couldn’t take the thought of him seeing me that way. Like my parents, I couldn’t blame him for wanting to stay away. He didn’t need to see me like that, weaker than before.

The distance between us was hurting him inside much more than it was me. Again, I was selfish.

Shit, sorry. I’m digressing again. Anyways, I know you came to Birmingham to study and all though, I bet you never thought you’d be _settling_ here. In your own place. No university accommodation, either. Your own place with your partner, who’s in bleedin’ _recovery_ for Christ’s sake. Who wants nothing more than to survive every day, step by step, little by little; to _grow._ To glow. To simply walk up those stairs and get dressed. To simply brush their teeth, comb their hair. To feel good about themselves, to feel happy breathing fresh air.

It’s Summer now, like I said, London and Team GB is the centre of worldwide attention. We’re all united in a way we’ll probably never see again. I suggest trying to get tickets. You wrangle us tickets to the Velodrome. Super Saturday… my God, it was super indeed. Gold medals here; there and everywhere. And a _kiss_ from you. I didn’t think I’d be gettin’ no more of those, again. It was a quick peck on the cheek, sure but; boy did it blow my mind. I had been missing your perfect lips, your tender touch, more than my needles. More than my vodka.

Summer really helped. Feeling the fresh air on my face, the sunlight dancing across both of our bodies; you know? Lying in the grass, walks round the parks, visiting the Western Safari Park, an intimate picnic in Lickey Hills… Our fingers brushing, just daring to touch. Me, just daring to smile. You, just daring to lay a supportive hand on my shoulder; wrap a supportive arm around my waist.

You told me that you had known I had loved you all along. You didn’t say whether you were falling too. And a part of me is very thankful that you didn’t, I don’t quite know how I would’ve reacted. We decided to try go out together, go for a walk, a low taxing and carefree activity for me; on what was actually our very first date. Popping round to Kings Norton, to Sophie’s chippy. Now they have three takeaways! Sharing the curry sauce, me feeding you chips. You sucking on those chips, on my fingers… ahem.

October 27th 2012 was when you first took me to bed. Your twenty-sixth birthday. What a remarkable night that was.

You knew I had grown fearful that it wouldn’t happen, especially after the hell I’d caused the first time we almost. Let’s not go there now. Just know that, that night… was one of the most… oh Christ, I’m _blushing!_ That night, you reset something within me. A switch, of sorts.

You reset something within me that made me want to wake up the next morning in your arms. You had given me the most powerful gift I could’ve ever asked for: you gave me a reason to live. Suddenly, I _wanted_ to stay alive.

That Halloween I was the Juliet to your Romeo, I was still a ‘damsel’ in distress. That November, we juggled my first year anniversary of sobriety, with a celebration. A real one, a night out on the town. Coming home to a walkway of roses, lit candles and fairy lights wrapped around the bannister. Rose petals scattered across the bed.

Coming home to you, it finally felt like I was coming home to _you._

What were the chances of that, huh? Me, being sober for one full year!? No quick whiffs of the drink, no taking the plunge… You almost cut alcohol out of your life too but I stopped you. Why should I spoil everybody’s fun? You know, surely I’ve done that enough already. It’s alright luv, have a second glass. You deserve it.

Christmas was magical. For the first time in a very long time, I was starting to grow confident in my own skin. My own skin which too appeared to be healing. I look down and I can still see those scars, I can envision them and their damage. The lumps, the cracked skin. How they ruined me. The memories will never fade. And... that’s okay.

But they don’t ruin me now that I’ve got my tattoo. My _first,_ mind you. I’m pretty covered now!

You had given me the most perfect Christmas present that year, you know. A gift voucher for our local Skin Trade body mods studio. They’re close mates of ours now, we’ve grown closer over the years, of course! I knew I wanted some ink on my arms, and together we prayed that I was strong enough, that my skin could withstand needles. That having the _good_ needles driving into me wouldn’t provoke me to be driving the bad ones back into my arms without mercy. Some reverse psychology, perhaps.

Well again, it’s been more than two years. Luv, there was no need to worry.

Turning my left arm up, I cast my gaze down to run over my first tattoo. Those hungry wolf eyes are piercing, they hide my secrets. Those sapphire blue eyes hold so many secrets; so much love and support. They remind me that I’m not alone, that it’s okay to confide in them. Talk to myself, talking out loud. There’s somebody to listen, now. Always somebody.

What’s the use in hurting myself again, when I have such a beautiful piece of artwork there instead?


	3. Chapter 3

The years passed by in such a blur after that. I was getting stronger, am getting stronger, every day. The road to recovery is a hella long one, I hope I never string this road with broken glass for you to hold. I can’t stand the thought of going back and betraying all my— our, _our_ hard work now. After many months of persuasion, of trying to prove to you that I can be the humble housewife you so deserve, ha! As if, I’m still burnin’ the ruddy toast… As I was saying, you know, after a good year and a half of squabbling over it: finally.

Finally, you chose to go back to your education, to finish what you started. Before I ruthlessly clawed away at all your chances of success, forcing you down my road to self destruction.

I’m not on that road anymore, I’m still learning to hold back my rain.

It’s Spring 2014. You’re almost a fully qualified French teacher! You still dazzle me with your French words to this day, you make me weak at the knees with your accent, how you hit and punctuate certain words. And your lyrics, my God! Talk about _taking me to the edge of heaven…_ Your voice, it’s ever so beautiful. So strong, so distinct. You have a perfect sound, I hope I can provide you with the right accompaniment to form our duet.

I’m doing a good job, right?!

I still remember your first day teaching at King Edwards vividly. You were so nervous, you couldn’t even decide on your bleedin’ outfit! You were so nervous, and it was absolutely adorable. Me coming to meet you at the gates after school, me rushing up to hug you, being span around by you… that was wonderful. You know you’re the best damn teacher they’ve got, they’re such a lucky institution to have a man so bloody dedicated to his work. To his students, so.

Oh… what was the name of that lad we saw at Bourneville station? The one who said you were really helping him to turn his studies around, and he was loving languages now because of you and your enthusiasm? And those guys with the ice-cream, who seemed to go nuts when they saw us cuddling on a bench?!

Okay yeah, a couple rude words were tossed our way… but they love you too much to care. _I_ love you too much to care, sod ‘em!

I’ve been getting real deep into my drawing and writing, journaling down my thoughts and feelings has really helped me to work out the triggers. Yeah, you’ve taught me a shitload too: how to write fluidly; how to communicate in ways without words if I can’t bring myself to use them. I still document what makes me feel low, what makes me want to soar, to this day. I need it, it really helps.

Thanks for not reading those diary entries, thanks for buying me the new notepad with the cute little tiger on last week.

By this point, mid 2013, I’m really starting to claw my life back working at that old car dealership in Edgbaston. It’s not much but the money is pretty good when I actually make a sale. You know I love my cars, I have a weird obsession and thirst for knowledge. I’ll never be able to afford that golden Aston Martin I’ve been after since I was about four, damn James Bond addiction… but oh well, I learnt to survive with my Ford! They’re a very handy automobile you know, now that I’ve got my license back, and can be trusted behind the wheel.

Even so, I knew that there was plenty more in-store for the two of us. We’re joined at the hip, always cuddling and snuggling on the sofa far too late into the night. You’ve insisted on fattening me up a tad, you’re really the best dang cook – I never knew I loved seafood as much as I do, until you started making it for me. That’s why I love it. Love you!

You do anything and everything to make me smile. _To come up and see me, make me smiiiiiyyiyiylllee!_ _Woah-oh!_ You sit through the same James Bond films again and again, you don’t mind me clogging up the Sky box with all my Miami Vice recordings. You never tire of me spinning Bowie record after record. Or T-Rex; though I know they’re still not really your thing; the glam rock ‘Get It On’ stuff.

I’ve taken to plucking away at the bass guitar now a tad at times too, I’m sounding my way through Chic’s ‘Good Times.’ That’s a track to always make me smile; they’re the best of the best!

I’ve been doodling and daydreaming so much that I haven’t even realised I pretty much have a damn sketchbook portfolio at my disposal. It’s been a long time since I experimented with my art, I’m not the best painter but I like to get messy and see what happens when my brushes hit the canvas. I love my acrylics and watercolours. Though it really gave me pause back then, wondering just what, if anything; I could do with it. There wasn’t a chance in hell that I would even consider heading back to Brum City uni, a mature student and all that crap, picking up my graphics course from all those years ago. No way. Thank you for not pushin’ me down the education route. You’re the Einstein of the household, you’re my Shakespeare. And I’m your Picasso, of sorts!

I still vividly remember that job interview. I was ready to throw up, or faint, as together we both trudged into the Skin Trade tattoo parlour, my favourite studio in all of Brum, on New Street. I wasn’t quite the regular at that point but I’ve got a good hoard of mates there, I just wished I could’ve afforded more ink at the time. I could envision it: bold, stark sleeves of my own creation. Of my own ideas, backed and supported by you... hopefully! You too were drawing up plans for us, you were building me a home. Though I had to do this for me, to prove to you that I could amount to something. Could make an honest living, doin’ something I love.

I got the apprenticeship right before my twenty-fourth birthday, for the coming September. Granted, I was a good eight or so years older than the bulk of the other candidates; they still chose me. They saw potential in me, in my designs, in my style and charisma. They knew I wanted to change my life, start again. They were gracious enough to give me that chance. That really meant something, I’m still humbled to this day.

  
You know it don’t matter how old you are, life starts when you say it starts. Start your career when you say you’re starting your career.

What even were the chances of me now owning my _own_ studio, having my own name in flashing neon lights; backed by my nearest and dearest, tattooing what means the world to me? Not a freaking clue but together, some crazy how, we’re making it happen.

Remember when I told you about a couple guys from Skin Trade walking? About the studio space? About transforming it? About us working together, to make it our own?! Ha! Course you do, like it was only yesterday.

And now we’re living right above my little tattoo parlour, in a place we’ve bought together; are building together. Our very own apartment, with your very own desk and with my very own swanky studio. These days you’re always up dead late marking, marking and more marking… stop it! Coming up with worksheets, test papers... It gets frustratin’ as shit for me at times, but I choose to channel that into more positive energy. Into my work, my designs. Into getting myself _more_ ink and piercings... don’t ask me how many more!

When we met, I had a single stud in my left ear and a nose ring! Till this day, I still cannot believe you liked the damn nose ring!

Getting our cat Nigel, our little white fluffball, was the absolute highlight. He makes our house feel more like a home, pawing through his little cat flap, playin’ with all his toys; don’tcha think?

Fuck, but do I want a kid.

I’m sorry, I’ve been ever so self centred throughout this whole damn story! I’m so sorry, you deserve your spotlight, don’t you? Absolutely.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, this is inspired by my _Hold Tight _saga. A modern rendition, if you will. So spoilers for that are found here, but it probably won’t make much difference.__

Proposing to you was the best idea I’d ever had in my life. I couldn’t believe you almost beat me too it, that we had the same idea. Both of us had bought rings! Two thick, sleek silver bands, perfectly perfect. _Two hearts beating, in this place we’ve made,_ don’t they? I remember saying to you, the day that same sex marriage finally became legal a couple years prior, that I could really see myself walking down the aisle to you someday. And there I am, bawling on my damn knee in the middle of the newly built Grand Central station… goddamn, we attracted such a crowd! The cheers, the whoops, the hollers… wow.

Thank fuck you said yes. I’m so glad I didn’t throw up. I’m so glad Andy was there to cheer us on.

  
Engraving ‘we can call it paradise’ on the inside of our rings, was one of the best ideas you’ve ever had; to make them just that much more special.

I just didn’t think I’d ever get there. Walking down that aisle, kissing before our friends and family. Living in holy matrimony, vowing to love each other forever. The affair was so grand, yet intimate; we had the whole Botanical Gardens to ourselves. To our best friends, to our loving family. Everybody came, everybody wanted to watch me make me yours. To watch you make me yours; for life. The scene was stunning, it became one of the hottest days of the year. In our damn satin suits, it was far too hot for my red number!

Oh and the damn peacock trying to steal my slice of wedding cake… that was hilarious.

I’m getting flashes to my birthday last year. I turned, bloody hell, thirty… shush! What an eventful week it was, with the girls. You had starting floating the idea, and fuck, did it drive wedges between us all. But that’s a story for another time. I’m just thankful the four of us made it to New York in one piece. Times Square was magnificent, Broadway was spectacular. Seeing the Statue of Liberty, riding a ferry up and down the Hudson wrapped in your arms… I couldn’t ask for anything more.

I knew I was right into persuading the girls to visit Kleinfelds. That Romona Keveza gown made me shed a tear, I know I’ll be blubbering like a baby when I see it with the veil. They’ll set the wedding date soon, I know they will!

God, do you remember how _jealous_ of her I was?! I’ll admit I was intimated as hell when you told me that the two of you went back all those years, had been an item, had slept together and all… Shit, I really thought she’d try to nab you back. I did not take my initial jealously out on her, did I? I’m still ashamed I even thought that you’d leave me for her, though we were a couple and Yassie was happy with her own relationship…

She’s a trained nurse now. Living and loving the family therapist.

Anyways, I’m off on one of my infamous tangents! Back to New York, my birthday 2018...

Our final night there, our final date. We were snuggling out on the balcony, overlooking the busy and wired streets; New York was always so alive, always buzzing. Yasmin walks up to us, sealing her hands around your waist like you had with mine, chuckling. Yasmin tells us the news we had been longing to hear for so bleeding long… There’s no need to be on that bloody adoption waiting list no more, who knew how long we could’ve been waiting? She agrees to give us the most wonderfully life changing gift she could.

And now look at us. Married for over two and a half years, love stronger than ever, with our beautiful newborn baby girl. Diana was born the night of the thirteenth July 2018. A special day in the Rock’n’Roll calendar, shall we say. Live Aid’s anniversary.

I remember sobbing uncontrollably when we found out it had worked, sobbing uncontrollably when her fragile frame was handed to me. When I cradled her for the first time, I kissed you senseless and considered myself to be the luckiest man in the world. How can I, can we, ever repay you Yasmin, for giving us the greatest gift? I’m sorry, I mean, _mummy._

I remember her saying this was her way of starting to pay us back for all that we had done for her, her depression, her anorexia and then the car crash but no, that’s bullshit. Getting her and the love of her life together. Bullshit. This is going a mile further, she’s given us the greatest gift we could ever ask for. Together, the four of us are all parents, Diana is incredibly lucky to have so many wonderful adults in her life, who treasure her more than anything.

Crouching down, my tired eyes grow ever more fond for our tiny dancer, our little electric spark. Our Diana, resting ever so softly, bundled up in her cream crochet blanket, teeny fists balled up and beside her head. She is ever so precious, our little treasure. I’d _die_ before I let anything happen to her, they’d have to get through me first. No harm will ever come to you, my princess, my Diana.

I still remember the day that you and Yasmin began floating the idea of surrogacy. Renée told Yasmin that if she did this, she’d ruin her life. And by doing so, they almost ended it right then and there. We almost ended it between the four of us. But like I said; now is not the time to get into that story. And our favourite girls: Yasmin and Renée. Meeting them in the very same Rum Runner club where I had first fallen for you three years prior. Having them change our lives forever… yeah, that story is for another time. They deserve a full blown novel, full of our and their love.

Anyways, I cast my loving gaze back over to our beautiful baby Diana again, pushing my glasses up on my nose. She looks just like both of us. I know it’s not exactly possible and all, although me and Yasmin do have those similar features. She has my deep brown opal eyes, and your lips. Your golden hair, it’s only beginning to sprout, like a little halo around her teeny head. She’s _perfection._

Back to, you know, _you._ None of this would even be real, could’ve possibly happened, if it wasn’t for you. You saved me, all those years ago, in the very same club I fell for you at. You saved me, in the very same club we met the girls at. And now together, the four of us, are able to live in harmony, with our newest edition. The girls have rings on their fingers now too. Just to think, they got together because of us; we got _married_ because of them. Their wedding date is set for Winter 2020, back in Ren’s home town of Aarhus. I can’t freakin’ wait!   
  
  


Imagine how hot we’ll both look, freezing our butts off in our matching navy suits and roller neck jumpers! Who told ‘em it’s a great idea to get married outside by candlelight and all, in the frickin’ mountains... oh right, you! You sod.

  
  
Anyways, I’m ever so chatty tonight! What are the chances that we, you and me, could have such a wonderful life? With our wonderful baby; making our family whole? I’m forever grateful for those chances. They never stopped coming; we never stopped taking them. I’m forever grateful for those chances. Or shall I call it fate, our story waiting to be written? I’ll call it fate: the stars have aligned perfectly, for you and I.

I can never say ‘thank you’ enough Simon, for keeping me alive. For giving me a reason to live. Twirling my silver wedding ring, I close my eyes to inhale a sharp breath. Damn, Diana is waking up—

“Shush, I’ve got you, baby girl. _Because you’re so, Lonely In Your Nightmare, let me in._ Shush shush. Oh, I know, I know...”

—She’s bawling. Now she’s slobbering all over my favourite Kim Wilde t-shirt! Diana is the absolute most precious gemstone; the shiniest star twinkling in my midnight sky. Please don’t spit up on this one, baby girl. I just about got the stains out of my ‘never mind the—’ rude word, shirt! ... Note to self, stop wearing my favourite graphic tees around her, you’re a _father_ now. You have responsibilities to shield her from the same filth you couldn’t keep yourself from.

“I’m here baby, I’ll always be here...”

But she’s okay, she’s more than okay. Resting her fragile frame on my shoulder, I bounce our baby girl lightly. She’s missing you, and our favourite cuddly toy. I hand her back Leonard, waggling him before her. I kiss her damp cheeks softly, brushing away her tears.

“Awww shush, shush... _And it’s barren in your garden, let me in_...”

Diana, baby, I hope you know, that you make me and Daddy, me and Simon, the most proud, and gracious parents ever. You’re perfect for us; you’re our everything, luvvie.

“ _There’s heat beneath your winter, let me in_...”

Turning to face you, I walk over and perch at the edge of our bed. Holding Diana tight, I bounce her softly, and still I whisper to you. _Please_ Simon, sleep easy. I’ll look after her tonight.


End file.
